Dance For Me
by Elluxion
Summary: Hermione has proven herself time and time again to be a valuable witch of knowledge and power... yet she throws away what she has been working so hard for in one impulsive move, for magic was what killed her love.


**Dance For Me  
Written by Elluxion**

* * *

**Title: **Dance For Me 

**Written by: **Elluxion 

**Date: ** 18th May 2003 

**Genre: ** Romance/Drama 

**Shippings: ** D/Hr 

**Summary: ** Hermione has proven herself time and time again to be a valuable witch of knowledge and power... yet she throws away what she has been working so hard for in one impulsive move, for magic was what killed her love. 

**Notes: ** Now that I look at it, it's not as well-written as I think it could have been, but Dance For Me belongs to itself now and no matter how hard I try to re-write it, my muse never listens. A short story, one-shot ficlerette... hope you like, and please review! 

Onwards! Onegai, review! 

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She watched, more out of habit than anything else, as the computer screen darkened and flickered to a chasm of fluid shadows. Her fingertips brushed the laptop screen, sending rainbow streaks exploding from her touch, gratifying her for a brief moment that passed entirely too quickly. Once, the magic had flickered from her like that, pouring out of her by a mere command, a whispered word. Once, her soul had been infused with the pulsing power and thirst for more; her mind arrogantly possessing the knowledge that she was capable of greater things, could ascend to greater heights, was able to accomplish so much more. 

Once. 

Hermione was once a gifted witch, a Muggle-born, but one who continually astonished everyone with her inexhaustible capacity for magic. Now a plain Muggle, alone in her London flat, with nothing but this silly Muggle contraption they called a laptop for companion. No, wait - she stopped herself condescendingly. The laptop, and several others. Her memories, her recollections, her thoughts of days long passed. 

Once. 

She hated that word. So final, so infinitely acidic. She hated that word, and yet it was the very essence that described her. Once, once upon a time. 

Four o'clock. Hermione glanced idly at the fanciful clock that hung placidly by the window, noting, mechanically, the time. With a flourish, she snapped the laptop shut and prodded it into a drawer. 

It took her a few moments to contemplate, like it always did, and the results were forever the same. Hermione yanked open another drawer, and if a movement could define bitterness, the sudden wrench of her arm fairly shrieked it. She gathered the forlorn, splintered pieces of her wand and stuffed it into her pocket. Grabbing her keys, her wallet, her cell phone and a pair of scissors, she pranced haughtily out of the apartment, seeped, as usual, in the vortex of emotions that were synonym with every Tuesday afternoon. 

~*~ 

The flowers drooped pathetically before them, shriveled and faded with the ungraceful passing of time. Lavender petals had darkened and lightened into indiscernible shades of an odd-looking mixture of brown and blue. Their leaves rested carelessly scattered on the ground, frail, spent in energy and life. 

He grinned at her, and she automatically pulled the strands of hair away from his face, tucking it behind his ear. An affectionate gesture, but one that she performed so often neither one of them noticed it anymore. He had let his hair grown, to his shoulders, and the silverish locks hung haphazardly around the pointed, elegant face, lending him a rakishly dangerous look, yet somehow redefining the aristocratic air that already clasped around him. 

She lifted her head and smiled back, sadistically, slowly, mockingly. 

"What?" 

"Polite, aren't we?" he asked breezily, circling the patch of wilting violets. 

"If you brought me here to gaze at a bunch of dying flowers, you've got a seriously demented idea of romance." 

"Thank you for the affirmation of my disturbed sanity," he returned easily, the quip rolling off his tongue easily as water droplets scudding down the back of a duck. 

"You're welcome." Hermione ruffled his hair teasingly. His eyes locked on hers, and she actually stepped back wonderingly. He smiled again, knowing exactly the kind of effect he had on her, and was unabashed about it. 

It was the eyes, always the eyes. Intense, solemn, serious - pools of steely gray, metallic and cold, with a strong brow for companion. Relentless at first glimpse, but lightened with barely veiled love for her. So damn changeable: lightening in joy, darkening in sorrow, deepening in contempt. Hermione had learnt to read his eyes, rather than his face, and it always worked. 

He barely had to lean down to kiss her; she was only an inch shorter than he was, and she involuntarily pressed back, arms entwining his neck, dragging into his hair and mussing it up. That tangy, sharp taste of his lips was unforgettable. Hermione closed her eyes as he slid his hands smoothly onto the small of her back. His tongue slipped against her locked lips, asking for entry, the cheeky move bordering on perilous. Hermione obstinately refused to part them, and he tugged a curl of her hair petulantly. She still resisted, and he swiped at her harder, serious this time. 

Obediently she gave up the game of hard-to-get and melted into his embrace. He entered her mouth roughly, and she pressed harder. His hands wandered down to the sash of her robes and she slapped them away gently. 

"Not here," she murmured, breaking off the kiss. "Not now." 

He looked breathlessly down at her, all pretense dropped, his eyes shining. "Much as I'd love to snog the entire day, Mi, I brought you here to show you something. Remember the lily-fairy we found the other day?" 

"The lily-fairy?" 

"The lily-fairy," he reiterated exasperatedly. When the name refused to strike with Hermione, he delved into a pocket and withdrew a closed palm. He beckoned her close and spread his fingers open achingly slowly, aiming for, and achieving, a dramatic effect. 

On one of his fingertips lay a miniscule little imp, about half the size of a needle, slender and fragile-looking, clouded with puffs of emerald sparkles. Hermione bent down and solemnly gazed into the lily-fairy's green eyes. The creature was placid, calm, unclothed and naked, as all natural creatures are apt to be. If she had been magnified, she would have borne a resemblance akin to a seven-year-old girl's. Her features were soft, innocent; trusting jade eyes looking deeply into Hermione's own. 

"This is a lily-fairy? I had no idea what she was, when we found it," Hermione told him honestly. The creature flashed her a sudden small smile that came and went as quickly as the changeable wind, and Hermione laughed aloud. "What a sweetheart!" 

"The thing is, you don't know what she can _do_," he returned mysteriously, cloaking his words skillfully with enigma and lure. "Lily-fairies are so rare; there are, what, fifty in this world? It took me a few days' research to even catch the word 'lily-fairy', and when I did, I was intrigued. Mi, no one's ever been able to research a lily-fairy in depth before, and last night, I found out what lily-fairies have the ability to do." 

"D'you mean…?" Hermione breathed, not daring to catch her breath should this dream - if it was one - dissipate into forlorn fragments. 

"Yes, we're on the verge of magical breakthrough." 

"Dear Gods," she whispered, looking at the minute figure in wild astonishment. 

He suddenly tossed the little fairy in the air, and she floated before him, at eye-level, soundless and dainty, all quick movements and wariness. She did not speak. 

"The flowers," he said simply. 

The lily-fairy nodded quietly, a servant obedient only to him, and she gazed down at the flaccid violets with a scornful twinkle in her eyes. She flitted down, so much like a lithe butterfly, reached out a milky white hand, and rested it carefully on a petal. 

Instantly the flower pulsed with an ethereal jade aura, luminosity vibrating, humming from the lily-fairy's fingertips, illuminating the plant from petal to root. Before Hermione's widened eyes, the stem righted itself, turning into a soft green, and the petals reached out for sunlight once more, color returning to them as suddenly and speedily as the crimson rushing into a shy young maiden's cheeks. 

In stunned silence on Hermione's part, and watchful, teasing serenity from his, the lily-fairy performed the maneuver smoothly many times over, breathing life back into the flora. The mass of mauve blossomed before her, and the unique scent of violets penetrated their sense of smell. 

"Dance." 

He said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that Hermione switched her gaze from the lily-fairy to him. Studying the flickering mercury eyes brimming with anticipation and expectation - eyes that were focused on _her_ - Hermione squeaked out, "_What?_" 

"Dance," he echoed the ghost of him mere moments before. "Dance around the violets, leaving a wide berth between yourself and the outermost violets." 

"Whatever for? How?" 

"Dance for me, Hermione. Dance for me." 

Insistently he thrust her at the flowers, and she stood there helplessly, not knowing what to do. The lily-fairy hovered near her watchfully. Time seemed suspended and chained to heavy bolts of eternity. 

He exhaled impatiently, stepped forward and grabbed her hands, fitting her fingers into his own. Hermione giggled as she saw their intertwined hands, stretched out between them. 

"You're even paler than I am." 

He acknowledged her frivolous remark with a toss of his head, bangs catching the late afternoon sunlight. The moon already dangled high in the air, surrounded by blue and the sudden swirl of snow-kissed clouds. The moon, a resident of night, choosing to wake from her slumber and invade the cerulean sky - not uncommon, but a sight to admire, as well. 

Slowly, patiently, he stepped to one side, and she mimicked his movement. He swished her back and forth, and she was helpless pawn to his game. He guided her and danced with her to a melody that no one heard except them. 

And then she was dancing, spinning, wildly and freely, laughing the call of a spirit, circling the patch of violets with no restrictions or limitations. She kicked out, she twirled, she swayed, and she dipped, like an eagle in flight. Her wild dance was beautiful to see. She was a dove in the midst of sparrows, a rose buried in a bed of common daisies, a queen surrounded by her followers. She was special, unique, she stood out, and she brought out every tingling element of her exceptionality with each step and move. 

He stood back, watching her unceasingly, not knowing whether to feel wonder or satisfaction. He had broken the bonds that everyone's expectations had unknowingly placed upon her, had shattered the lines that she stepped so carefully between. He had finally managed to unlock the free spirit she had kept enclosed for so long. With that single dance, Hermione was giving herself well-deserved freedom, and she was gifting the world with something else. 

From the space she had left between her and the flowers, buds were beginning to strain their way through the ground. Spindly green stems found their way towards the sunlight; the buds flourished under the warm weather, and in a splendor of beauty, he faced an explosion of lavender as all the flowers blossomed at once. 

When she finally dropped into his arms, exhausted and spent, the beaming lily-fairy beckoned them over to view the violets, to touch and see and smell her creation. 

"You created life," he told her. 

~*~ 

_Snip._

The scissors gleamed as it closed shut easily, and another violet fell to the ground, victim to Hermione's merciless fingers. She picked the long-stemmed plant up in her left hand. She'd gathered quite a bouquet already. 

_Snip._

A last one. Hermione straightened herself and surveyed the bouquet she brandished before her. Imperfections were aplenty: they were mostly of varying lengths, some violets were larger than the others, a few more were succumbing to the heat, and some half-wilted flowers had actually the audacity to wander into the bouquet. Grimly, her face set and hard, she retrieved the snapped pieces of her wand from her pocket, and raised them high, uttering a charm. 

It took a while, but the illegal magic got through in the end. The flowers shortened and lengthened themselves accordingly, and as the indigo magic whipped through them, each blemish was repaired, achieving the result of a flawless bouquet - just the way he would like it. 

~*~ 

_Hermione, _

I regret to inform you that your husband has fallen in battle. He fought gallantly and he exceeded all expectations placed upon him. He was honorable to the last, and he showed the kind of spirit we all wish for our battlers to embody. 

He will be sorely missed, and not only for his presence, but also for his friendship and the personality that was so uniquely his. 

I'm so sorry. I know that the emotions you are experiencing right now are too vivid to be put into words. I won't be so insolent to say that I understand the loss of a soulmate and husband or wife. Bless you, dear child, and take care - I am here should you need me. 

In sympathy and sorrow,  
Albus Dumbledore

~*~ 

Her eyes were on the ground as she pushed open the gate leading to the cemetery. It was idyllic, peaceful: trees overladen with flowers and fruit were planted regularly after every few graves, providing not only shade, but comfort as well. Wildlife flourished in this place; every few feet Hermione glimpsed a bird, half-buried in leaves, or a squirrel, its head cocked at her inquisitively. 

Silence breathed steadily around her, embedded with birdsongs and chirpings, of whistlings and tickings, of insect-song and of the zephyr playing hide-and-seek with the branches and leaves. Hermione steadfastly ignored the beauty, her eyes clouded with memories and shrouded in pain. 

A long, winding walk took her to an almost secluded corner of the cemetery. A massive apple tree - one of his favorite things when he had been alive - groaned under the weight of plentiful, ripe fruit, throwing dappled shadows over the gravestone, fringing the words etched there. 

_

**Dracolas Nicholas Malfoy**

_

1975 -- 2000  
Missed friend  
Faithful brother  
Treasured husband 

Hermione Malfoy smiled softly and laid the bouquet at Draco's feet. She traced the engraved words once, very gently, with a feathery touch, before she rose and turned, walking the way she had come. She could fancy him clasping his hands around her, nibbling her ear lovingly, and breathing in the scent of her hair. But most of all, she could hear him say, one last time: 

"Dance for me, Hermione. Dance for me." 

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End file.
